Page 23 of Clay

The deadline’s still months off, but at this pace, I might beat it, might actually pull off this dream I’ve carried since I was a kid.

The panic that’s been clawing at me—the fear of failing my publisher, of wasting my advance—is quiet tonight, drowned by the steady clack of keys and the thrill of creation.

I pause, leaning back in my chair, the wood creaking under me as I stretch my arms overhead.

My eyes drift to the bookshelf, to the worn spines of books that shaped me—I was a voracious reader then, and it’s an honor and privilege to be writing books now.

The old books are like old friends, reminders of why I’m here, why I left the city’s grind to chase this. I think back to those nights at nineteen, curled up on Clay’s couch in his trailer, reading aloud to him while he tinkered with bike parts, his laugh breaking through my dramatic pauses. He’d tease me—“You’re gonna write us into one of those someday, huh?”—and I’d blush, not admitting I already had, in secret notebooks I never showed him.

Now it’s real, and he’s the heartbeat of it, the rogue who’s giving my hero a reason to fight.

But even as the story sings, there’s a knot in my stomach I can’t untie—worry about the heist. Clay laid it out last night, his voice low and serious in the dark of my bedroom, promising he’d pull back after this one.

One hundred grand, he said, enough to shift things, to give us a shot at something steadier.

I trust him—I do—but his world isn’t soft edges and happy endings. It’s a heist tonight, a truck loaded with goods, and all I can see is him out there in the shadows, adrenaline pumping, one slip away from cuffs or worse.

I’ve been jumping at every creak outside, every gust of wind, my mind spinning with nightmares—sirens wailing, him hauled off again, me left alone like before.

I push it down, pour it into the story, but it’s there, a quiet ache under the joy.

Then I hear it—a low, throaty rumble slicing through the night, vibrating up through the floorboards and rattling the vase on my desk.

My heart leaps, my fingers freezing mid-word. I know that sound—Clay’s Harley, deep and unmistakable. Relief floods me, warm and sudden, washing away the worry like a river breaking a dam.

It worked—he’s here, safe, back to me. I just know he is.

I shove my chair back, the scrape loud in the stillness, and I’m out of the study in a heartbeat, bare feet slapping the cool wood as I race to the front door.

I fling open the door.

“Clay!” I holler, my eyes filling with tears of joy.

I don’t wait—I run to him, the night air sharp against my skin, my oversized sweater flapping as I close the distance.

We collide halfway, his arms catching me as I crash into him, and he’s solid, warm, smelling of road dust and leather and him.

I bury my face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my cheek, and his hands slide to my back, pulling me tight like he’ll never let go.

His lips find mine, a kiss that’s deep and desperate, tasting of triumph and relief, and I kiss him back just as hard, my fingers curling into his jacket, anchoring myself to him.

“Dylan,” Clay says when we break apart, his voice rough and low, his forehead pressed to mine, breath warm against my lips.“I want you—foreverthis time. No matter what happens, no more running, no more cutting you off. I’m in, all the way.”

My breath hitches, tears stinging my eyes, but they’re the good kind, born from hearing what I’ve ached for since he walked back into my life.

“I feel the same,” I say, my voice steady despite the emotion clogging my throat. “I want you, Clay—forever. I know it won’t always be easy, being with a motorcycle club man, but I’m here for it.Allof it. I’m here for all of it… Daddy.”

Clay pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine, a flicker of doubt there, like he’s still afraid I’ll turn tail.

“You mean that?” he asks, voice raw, needing to hear it again.

“I mean it,” I say, cupping his face, my thumbs brushing the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve loved you since I was nineteen, and I never stopped—not through prison, not through the city, not through anything. We’ve got this second chance, and I’m not letting it go.”

His grin breaks wide, all teeth and relief, and he pulls me in again, kissing me slower this time, softer, but no less intense. It’s a seal, a vow, and I melt into it, my hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

The night wraps us in its cool embrace, but inside me, it’s all heat and certainty.

I know what I’m choosing—the club, the risks, the nights I’ll wonder where he is. It’s not a fairy tale, not neat or simple, but it’s us, and that’s everything.

---